The Takedown of Philippe Darcet
by Honest Abe
Summary: George Mason fights against the disdain of his superiors and the political infighting of his own government while trying to bring down Philippe Darcet, a Barcelonian drug lord. This is the first part of a trilogy about Mason, and will later include AU. R
1. Chapter 1

The Takedown of Phillipe Darcet

Barcelona, Spain. 24th October, 1999.

The car's heating had failed _again_, and Antonio De Suza was now grumbling half-formed insults into the rain. It was a sad day when people under Mr. Darcet had to suffer broken heaters. De Suza reached down under the dash and closed his hand around the Glock 17 taped to the hard plastic. He turned back to the front and stared out the windshield into the darkening night, hoping that this meeting would go off without a hitch. De Suza was hoping to spend his brother's birthday with him in Florida, and his plans would be slightly disrupted if he found himself with a bullet in his head. The alleyway in front of the car stayed dark. After several moments of suffering, De Suza jerked upright as the twin beams of a vehicle sliced through the gloom. A battered van, so dirty that the colour was debatable, accelerated up the alleyway, the headlights blinding the drug dealer. His hand found the gun again, and caressed it nervously, like a lover.

The van slowed to a halt and the door was eased open. A figure, indistinct behind the headlights' glare, Came forward. De Suza wound the windows down nervously, hand still on the gun. An unmistakably arab face appeared and De Suza spoke first, his voice tight.

"You Muhammad?"

The man was tall and dark, with a neatly-trimmed beard. But the thing that really scared De Suza was his eyes. They burned with a dark fanaticism, the sort that the SS in Russia were reputed to have when murdering entire families of Jews.

De Suza was right to be nervous.

"Yes." The one word held a quiet weight of unmistakable authority and De Suza opened the door, standing up straight and sticking out a hand. The Arab looked at it for a second, then turned his back to De Suza and walked off towards his van.

The arab pulled the side door open with casual force, and reached into the dark interior of the van. De Suza tensed but it was only a wad of dollars. He took it with a mumbled thanks. Muhammad turned to him and spoke.

"There is the money. Now you will give me the weapons."

De Suza nodded weakly and motioned with a large gesture of his hand. Another man came from behind the car, carrying a small breifcase in his hand. The arab was happy with the purchase and said so. He bowed from the waist before getting into his van and swerving around in the narrow alley, almost hitting De Suza. He leapt backwards, hitting the wall. The van accelerated down the alley and turned off, its' tail lights gleaming. De Suza watched for a second, then slid into his car and lifting a bulky satellite phone to his ear, speed-dialling a number. When it picked up, he uttered a single word: "Done."

Two months later, a massive explosion ripped through the crowded shopping centre in Washington D.C. It sent a monumental cloud of black cloying smoke up into the air, and hurled body pieces all across several city blocks. An estimated five hundred people died in seconds, with another hundred dying of their wounds in the hours that followed. Blood ran in streams down the road outside, and the entire area was turned into a charnel house. The United States were infuriated and every effort was made to track down those responsable.

Los Angeles, USA. 5th January, 2000.

The apartment was still dark. The door opened quietly. A chink of light was shown and was sliced in two as a shadow crossed it. A man crossed the threshold of the apartment, weariness evident in every tired step he took, before he slumped into the setee across from the TV. He yawned, jaws cracking, and stretched. He was tired. Really tired. The room was still dark, and the man relished it, loved it, cherished it. It was a chance to unwind for a second before everything kicked off again. He heaved himself off the setee, knocking a photo, framed, from the table beside it. He reached down and picked it carefully up, gazing at the face captured within. John, he thought. John, my poor son, whatever do you think of me now? He set the frame down and headed across the room to a small cabinet. The door swung open and the clinking of glasses revealed it's identity: whisky. The man in the crumpled suit poured himself a shot, ice twinklng at him from the depths of the glass, before toasting the lit cityscape outside. He went to the window, where a beam of moonlight revealed his unshaven face, the blue eyes, the receding hairline. He leant against the widow and took another sip of the drink. His tie seemed too tight for him, and he loosened it. He felt nostalgic, suddenly, for the old days. What had the world come to? The explosion that had changed all of their lives had hollowed him, left him a husk. He knew not how he could go on believing in the integrity of man in such times. He could lament no more. He closed his eyes as he let his mind wander, back through the winding corridors of his youth. The quiet silken darkness was broken by the soft trilling of the telephone. The man crossed the moonbeam and scooped up the phone.

"Yes?" The voice was rough, like a handful of gravel scraping across asphalt. Not an unpleasant voice, a reassuring voice to some, bureaucratic wrath to others.

"Mr. Mason?" The voice on the other end was the anonymous purr of a junior agent of the CTU, the Counter Terrorist Unit. The man called Mr. Mason had returned to the window, and was once again gazing into the pinpricks of light dancing in the city far below.

"I hope this is urgent. I'm on day shift right now, and even then extra hours keep me in. What?"

"Sir, you're needed in. Mr. Chappelle's called a videoconference of all CTU Divisional Directors in an hours time."

Mr. Mason nodded to himself. "All right. I'll be at Division in fifteen minutes."

He hung up. With a final glance out the window, he set the glass down, the remaining whisky rippling across the surface like a minature storm. And George Mason, divisional Director, Los Angeles CTU, slipped from the room, leaving the whisky to swirl around the glass silkily, reflecting the thousand glittering daggers of light from the large windows.


	2. Chapter 2

"Yes, fellas, I'm not a terrorist, no bombs, headscarves, or anything." George was standing in the security booth in Divisional Headquarters, CTU LA. A blue-uniformed security guard ran a metal detector up and down George's sides.

"I'm sorry sir, but you know it's procedure." He stepped back and nodded, and George grunted and scooped up his sidearm and keys from the small metal tray alongside the detector. "Yeah, just remind me that when the budget report comes in." He said as he shouldered his way through the double doors into a brightly-lit corridor of identical office cubbyholes containing identical-looking CTU agents. He exchanged a curt nod with a few and looks of apprehension from the rest. George wasn't known for either his tolerance or his temper, and more than one CTU agent had felt the biting Mason wit at 8am in the morning. George headed along the hallway until he reached a glass-panelled conference room, where CTU personnel were waiting with coffee cups and notepads ready. George pushed open the door and threw his coat over the nearest chair, sitting and motioned for the nearest agent to pass him a cup of coffee. He sipped the liquid gingerly. He hated it when he burned his tongue.

"So what have we got? What's so urgent that Chappelle called me away from a nice TV dinner?" George glared at all of them in turn before sighing and ripping a page off the agent nearest him's notepad. He could really be a bastard sometimes. In answer an agent flicked on the TV screen and Ryan Chappelle's face appeared, along with those of several other Divisional Directors and their staff. George smiled slightly. Chappelle was a tight-assed bureaucratic idiot, and was sweating and red, no doubt being shit upon from way high. George didn't like Chappelle. Not one bit.

"Hello Ryan. Gentlemen. What can I do for you?" He spoke politely. Ryan cut to the chase.

"Listen George. What we're here for is serious. The terror attacks in Washington DC have put way too much heat on CTU. We're in deep trouble here. Congress is voting next week on a reduction of our budget and manpower, and the future of this organisation is on the line."

Goerge looked unconcerned.

Chappelle smiled nastily. "So this is the last chance. We believe that the perpetrators of the attacks are going to strike again in the next 48 hours...in LA."

George sat bolt upright. "What?"

Chappelle's face twisted into a smile that old Lucifer himself would've envied as he continued, George's expression gradually darkening in anger. "Yes, George, in L.A. So we're all counting on you to stop this guy before he gets away. I'll fax you the details now. And George? I'm counting on you."

The screen went dark and George sat perfectly still for an instant before slowly balling up the piece of notepad paper and throwing it at the screen. With a single careless action Chappelle had scapegoated George Mason and the entire of CTU Division, California, so that his ass was well and truly covered. George's anger was simmering but he couldn't blame Chappelle- after all, George would've done the same thing. It was just the game. He rose and spun the chair with his foot down the table before speaking. "So people, Chappelle wants to bury us to cover his ass. So we're gonna make sure he regrets it. He'd better bury us real deep." No-one made a sound as George Mason stalked from the conference room, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

George sat at his large desk, a sheaf of paper held in his trembling hands. My God. They were truly, truly screwed. Chappelle's information was nothing, hardly worth the paper it was printed on. It described the man they were after, an Achmed Bin Salah. A photo had been provided, but it was prettey much useless, seeing as it was grainy and old, dating from way back in 1988. George swore bitterly and slammed the papers down, his tie suddenly seeming too tight. He didn't loosen it however, preferring to swear instead and pick up his phone, giving a series of sharp orders to the agents at the other end.

George closed the door to his office and moved quickly down the hallway towards the exit, a mobile phone gripped in his hands. He was talking earnestly to the LAPD.

"Yes, captain, I understand the problem, but we really have no other choice. And we have very little time in which to react, so do it fast." George hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket, opening the door to the garage and walking in. The garage was cold, as it was nine o'clock at night. George crossed the cold clammy floor, draughts whipping up the ends of his trouser legs.

"Mr. Mason?" The voice came suddenly.

George spun and faced it. A young agent he wasn't familiar with was standing beside a plain government sedan, keys in hand.

"What is it?" Snapped George as he slowed.

"Sir, you are planning to go out there?" Said the agent, motioning to the car and obviously the field work.

George frowned. "Yes. Got a problem? We're a little short of time and I don't have any to spare talking to you." The young agent winced and responded hesitantly.

"I was going to offer to give you a hand, sir." George's frown deepened. "I don't need any help, thanks anyway." George chucled as he drove from the carpark, as the young agent stared after him, uncomprehending.

The phone in his pocket rang as he was waiting at a red light. George grumbled as he fished into his jacket pocket, retreiving it after a few moments' scrabbling. He pressed it to his ear.

"Mason." He said as the light turned green and the other cars around his moved off. George changed gears with difficulty, pressing down on the accelerator and moving in and out of the other cars. The night was wearing on, and he hadn't much time to catch this guy, and George felt the first strands of tension grip him.

"Yeah. George. It's Tony Almeida down at CTU LA."

George changed lanes and rocketed across an empty street, his car flashing across in an instant. He dredged deep into his memory, finally locating Almeida. Of course. The new CTU guy, fresh from the marines. Or something.

"Tony, what is it. I'm slightly busy right now." Said George as the city lights flashed by his car.

"Well, uh, one of our analysts was going through the files Mr. Chappelle sent over and, we've, got a match."

George was jerked upright in his seat. "Yes, Tony. Good news!" He crowed to the empty car. "What's the word?"

"Well, that's the problem. We've sent two of our agents over to the address, which was apparently his brothers house. No-one home, but my agents are waiting outside for him to come back."

George swung the car to a stop outside a pharmacy and stepped out of the car, feeling the cool night air caress his face.

"Doesn't it seem a bit too convienient that the brother would use his real name? Is he even involved in terrorism?" George wanted to know as he took a box of pills off the woman behind the counter, nodding politely as he paid.

"We're not sure. But we have no other leads and if anything we'll get more on Achmed."

George leant against the wall outside and swallowed one of the pills. It was in fact a headache pill, and George knew that these two days were going to get invariably worse.

"Fine. When he gets back, bring him in. We were incredibly lucky to get something so fast, so don't squander the good work you've done here tonight, Tony. I'm on my way to CTU LA now. Tell-" Suddenly all that Tony heard was a sudden sharp intake of breath, the sound of George's phone clattering to the ground, and a sharp high chattering that Tony recognized from his army days, not too long ago.

Gunfire.

"George!" He yelled into the phone. "George!"

Silence. The line had just been cut.


End file.
